


Exchange rate

by hellotailor



Category: Loki: Agent of Asgard, Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 11:11:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2810129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellotailor/pseuds/hellotailor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘Your ability to see through illusion, have you ever wished to rid yourself of it?’</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exchange rate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fireinthedark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireinthedark/gifts).



> “There are people in this world who will never lie to you. Not me, obviously. But they do exist.” -- Loki, Loki, Agent of Asgard #2

There’s a man waiting outside for Verity when she leaves work. Sadly he isn’t Idris Elba with a box of fresh pad thai (the #1 ideal option) or even the art student she went on a mediocre date with last week. It’s a middle-aged guy in a subdued grey suit, holding an umbrella and standing next to an enormous black car.

‘Ms Willis?’ he calls out.

‘Yes?’ she says cautiously. She wonders, briefly, if someone has died and this is their way of breaking the news, but she doesn’t think undertakers make house calls.

‘I’m here from the Latverian embassy,’ he says. ‘Dr Doom requests your presence.’

What. The fuck.

‘OK, please don’t take this the wrong way,’ she says. ‘But what for?’

The one and only time she met Dr Doom (which, incredibly, is a thing that actually happened in real life), he told her that Latveria was in her debt. On the other hand, she highly doubts that she’s being invited over for tea. While Verity's personal life is not strictly supervillain-free, at least Loki doesn’t live in a gigantic castle full of killer robots, or rule over a small European nation with a literal iron fist.

‘Our excellency Dr Doom did not share with me the specifics, Ms Willis. He merely asked that I bring you to the embassy, and that I assure you that you will be completely safe.’

‘Wait, did he just ask you to _assure_ me about that, or am I actually going to be safe?’

‘Ms Willis,’ he says frostily. ‘You will remain unharmed while on Latverian soil. Your concerns are borne of anti-Latverian prejudice, and do not reflect the wise and just leadership of our great Doom.’

Since they’re talking about a maniacal dictator who once kidnapped Verity’s friend and locked him in a magical box, this isn’t super reassuring. However -- ‘What happens if I say no?’

‘We would prefer for you to say yes,’ he says, which is, obviously, the truth.

Verity looks around at the crowded street. This is New York, so if she screams that she’s being kidnapped by a Latverian henchman, there’s a 50/50 chance that people will just film her with their cellphones instead of calling the cops. Plus, she's kind of curious to see how this pans out. ‘OK,’ she agrees. ‘But just so you know, if I go missing, Loki is going to be pissed.’

Not exactly the most feminist of defenses, but Verity’s only weapons are a pepper spray keychain and the ability to tell when someone is lying, which don’t really measure up to the full force of an angered Norse deity. Loki is the best insurance policy she’s got.

*

The Latverian embassy is way less interesting than Verity had expected. Instead of doombots, exposed weaponry, or some kind of medieval portcullis, it just looks like a regular official city building. The only thing that makes the lobby different from an upmarket dentist’s waiting room is the ten-foot portrait of Dr Doom at the bottom of the staircase, glaring down at her with haughty disdain. Or as much haughty disdain as you can manage through a metal mask.

‘Wait here,’ says her kidnapper-slash-butler, and disappears off into some other room.

The front door looks temptingly unlocked, but Verity is pretty sure that when Dr Doom cordially invites you for an evening visit, you stay invited. Forcibly.

After the whole thing with Loki and Latveria and the big glowy ball of light, Verity had done a little research on Dr Doom. As usual, Wikipedia had given her a headache. The whole thing is written by people who think they’re telling the truth... but who are immediately corrected by someone else who thinks _they’re_ telling the truth. And that's not even taking into account all the hoaxes and rumor-merchants. Not the most comforting of sources, but unfortunately still the most efficient.

Wikipedia’s view of Dr Doom was bizarre. If you’d asked Verity what she thought of him before, she would’ve said something along the lines of, ‘Crazy dictator, metal face, likes to fight the Fantastic Four a lot?’ and she would’ve been right, more or less. But as ever, things are a little more complicated than that. Along with Doom’s never-ending list of failed world domination attempts, supervillain battles, weird medical experiments, and feuds, Latveria is doing surprisingly well. Life expectancy is high, Latverian citizens are richer and better educated than people in most neighbouring countries, and the political hierarchy is astonishingly stable for a country ruled by a walking suit of armor who refers to himself in the third person. Who knew?

The embassy agent guy sweeps back into the room a few minutes later. ‘Doom will see you now,’ he announces, and leads her into an antechamber.

Verity had been expecting to be put in front of a glorified Skype screen or something, but as it turns out, Doom is right here in New York. In self-preservation, she keeps her mouth shut as he stands to his full height, looming over her.

‘Doom thanks you for your presence,’ he intones, as the lackey vanishes out of the room. ‘And for the service you will perform for Latveria.’

‘Uh,’ she says. This doesn’t sound good. ‘Service?’

Dark eyes glimmer from beneath glass sockets in the mask, overshadowed by frowning crags of metal. He’s wearing a floor-length cloak and a fur cape thing over the top, indoors, in September, which Verity can only assume is a fashion choice. It’s not like it can be keeping him warm on top of all that metal armor. Is there some kind of supervillain style consultant who tells them all to dress like that, or what?

‘Your ability to see through illusions, have you ever wished to rid yourself of it?’

‘Well, yes,’ she answers. Constantly. Most of the time it’s more like an _in_ ability. An inability to handle normal human society on the same level as everyone else. She can’t watch the news, or listen to music with lyrics, or hold onto a halfway-decent relationship. Most of the time, the truth sucks.

‘Doom has devised a spell to remove this skill and temporarily transfer it to another vessel. Doom,' he adds, 'shall be that vessel.'

Images of hellish interrogations flash through her mind. The notorious Victor von Doom, with the power to see through every lie? She’s gonna go out on a limb here and guess that he wouldn’t be using her powers in the name of justice and freedom.

‘How does this transfer work, exactly?’ she asks, tentatively.

‘Doom answers to no one!’ He turns on his heel and strides over to the window, calming himself. ‘The procedure will not harm you.' He pauses. 'When we last met, you saved Latveria from a terrible fate. We are in your debt. So instead of taking your power by force, Doom shall grant you the opportunity to refuse.’

‘Ah,’ says Verity faintly. Apparently in the world of evil genius dictators, _not_ killing someone is considered a personal favor. Good to know. 'Thanks. Well, I've got to admit that the offer is tempting. But I'd kind of like to know what you're going to use my, uh, powers for. If that's OK.'

‘To do battle with an enemy of Latveria’s interests, Doom requires the ability to see through illusion.'

Verity narrows her eyes. ‘Is that enemy’s name Loki, by any chance?’

‘No. Now, decide! Doom has no patience for these prevarications.’

Of course, she says yes.

*

On the way home, she thinks about what she’s going to do with two days of freedom from the truth.

She’s thought about this before, obviously. The ability to see through lies is a mixed blessing, to say the least. People lie without even thinking about it, without even noticing. Even white lies rankle. And more frivolously, there's the matter of fiction. When you can't even tolerate the simlest lies, storytelling are beyond the pale. Movies and TV shows are for other people.

Over the past twenty-five years she’s had her fair share of daydreams about what works of fiction she’d consume, in the unlikely instance that she could actually appreciate them. At least one of the Harry Potter books, Star Wars, Casablanca... although of course, with only two days until her abilities revert back to their normal state, she'll have to plan things very carefully.

Even doing something as simple as traveling on the subway feels different. Ordinarily, she wears headphones and listens to white noise or some kind of factual audiobook, just to avoid the little pang of irritation she gets whenever she hears someone tell a lie. Now, that irritation is gone. She can overhear teenage boys bragging to each other and have the luxury of just ignoring it. She can look at subway ads and not feel obliged to decode the PR doublespeak. It's fascinating, and a little scary. How out of control everyone else must be all the time, having to trust their own instincts on whether something is fact or fiction.

Back home, she shoots off an email to her boss to say that she'll probably miss work tomorrow, and opens YouTube on her laptop. Cartoons should be a good starting-off point, right? She digs up some old Scooby Doo thing she'd had to suffer through as a little kid, and presses play.

Honestly? It's a trip. When you've lived for twenty-five years with the absolute certainty that you know what's real and what's not, it's genuinely unsettling to watch cartoon animals smash each other up and _not_ experience the near-physical sensation of Truth lurking at the back of your mind. Of course, it's not actually _fun_. She's not the target audience for Saturday morning cartoons, so it's probably better to find something better to watch.

Verity is halfway through downloading _Alien_ when she realises how stupid she’s being. 48 hours to experience fiction for the first and probably only time, and she’d completely forgotten to tell her friend the God of Lies.

**  
***  


Loki shows up on her doorstep within minutes of her calling him to explain.

'You've lost your mojo? Wait, does that mean you can see _this_?' he asks, and turns himself into a horse-headed... monster thing. Or makes himself look like one. Whatever.

'Fuck!' Verity exclaims, lurching back. 'Yes!' she pauses, reaching forward to touch fur. 'Huh, I didn't realize I'd be able to touch an illusion.'

'It wouldn't be a very convincing illusion, otherwise. Anyway,' he says, weaving past her and sitting down on the couch, his face turned back to normal, 'Are you sure this was a good idea?’

‘No.’ She slumps back against the couch. ‘But what was I going to do, turn down Dr Doom?’

He shrugs. 'Good point. So, what are you going to do with it?'

‘Well,’ says Verity. ‘I was hoping you’d be able to help with that. Will you... tell me a story?'

At once, Loki leans forward, his eyes seeming to glow -- or perhaps glowing for real, who knows. 'Ohhh, testing my mettle, are we?'

'Well, if I want lies, then why not go straight to the source?'

'Verity, you flatterer.' He grins. 'Alright, what kind of story? Tales of derring-do? How about the time I sold Thor to the fairies? Two truths and a lie? You won't know what hit you.' He practically looks like he should be rubbing his hands together in glee. 'Hah, you're the perfect audience.'

When he next speaks, his voice has changed. It's a tone she's heard many times before, generally when Loki starts spinning a tall tale to some unsuspecting chump. Usually, that's when Verity starts rolling her eyes, but this time it's different. There's no doubting murmur at the back of her head, telling her that nothing he says is real. Instead it's all one and the same, just clever words and Loki's warm, charming voice inviting her to come closer, to pay attention and follow along. Two truths and a lie feels just about right; there's simply no way for her to tell.

'Tonight,' he begins, 'I'm going to tell you how I came to be known as the mother of snakes. And I promise,' he adds with absolute sincerity, 'that every word of this tale is the truth.'

 


End file.
